


i found solace in the strangest place

by selenedaydreams



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Russian Premier League
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/pseuds/selenedaydreams
Summary: Despite the fact that this apartment’s sole purpose is to serve as a place of solitude, he finds that he likes Charlie’s company.He’s found that he likes sharing this little piece of Moscow with him.





	i found solace in the strangest place

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most niche thing I have ever written and that I will probably ever write. I've had similar pieces written before but this World Cup made me start a new one and actually finish it (in 72 hours too, that's...unpreceded for me). 
> 
> Title from Sia's _Alive_.

The select few that know of his apartment on the outskirts of Moscow never stop asking him why he insists on keeping it. Why he not only continues to waste money - their words - paying for it but also continues to visit it from time to time.

He hears their concerns of safety but assures them that the building is perfectly fine. It will take more than a couple of decades of wear and tear for such a massive concrete construction to succumb to its years and collapse to the ground. He hears their jibes at the way that it looks too but despite the flashy homes that they are now all able to afford, Igor is willing to bet that deep down none of them can deny that their sight alone is enough to assuage a certain strange kind of homesickness.

They are grey and battered and ugly but they are home.

Besides, how can it not be safe when you need to slide your key into the intercom at the front door in order to enter the building? That added measure of security almost cancels out the fact that half the time when he comes by, there a neatly handwritten note taped to the elevator door informing him that it is out of order.

Much like right now.

Heading for the staircase, underneath it he finds Dasha, the orange stray that somehow always manages to sneak into the building despite several declarations from his neighbors that none of them have ever let her in. Igor isn’t actually sure if her name is Dasha or if she even has a name but considering that he has formed a habit of leaving her scraps of food whenever their paths cross, it seemed fitting that he would find a name for her too.

She never follows him upstairs, always seeming content with nibbling on the scraps he forages for inside his grocery bags - a few bits of smoked salmon this time.

He doesn’t run into any of his neighbors on his way up to the fifth floor. No one stops him to strike up a conversation. That’s his ideal.

It’s not that he doesn’t like them. In all honesty, his neighbors here are far more tolerable than his other ones closer to the heart of the city. Maria, a young kindergarten teacher who lives to the left of him, has never been anything but kind to him. The first time they spoke she told him about one of the boys in her class that in a sea of Ronaldo and Messi jerseys was wearing one of his. CSKA, not Russia, to be exact. That distinction somehow makes it even more impressive.

Aleksandr, the Ph.D. student studying Russian literature who lives the apartment directly in front of his, however, has absolutely no idea who he is and Igor has no intention of enlightening him either. Although he does appreciate his book suggestions, especially when he leaves one of his beat up paperbacks in his mailbox downstairs, a posted note stuck to the inside cover detailing why he choose to leave him this specific book.

So really, it’s not that he doesn’t like them. It’s just that he doesn’t come here to interact with anyone. Wearing the captain’s armband for both club and country is an honor and a privilege that he has never taken for granted. But it is an honor and a privilege that takes a toll on you. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. This tiny apartment is his safe haven where he can shed away all the built up exhaustion and doubt.

 

 

 

Few know of the apartment’s existence and even fewer have visited it.

Since being loaned out to Arsenal Tula at the beginning of the year, Artem came by once and spent the first five minutes of the visit laughing at the ridiculous amount of rugs that are somehow able to fit into such a small space. Six, to be precise. One at the entrance, two matching ones on the floor of the kitchen, a large, expansive one on the floor of the bedroom touching almost all corners of the room, one hanging on the wall, of course, and another long and skinny one covering up the cold, grey floor of the balcony.

Igor knows the decor would fit a grandmother better than it fits him. He knows that he has no shortage of funds and could easily be able to put in hardwood flooring and maybe a shower head that actually detaches and doesn’t look like it was last replaced sometime in the mid 80s. He knows all of this and yet. He also knows that if he replaced any of the furniture or decorations, this apartment would lose its charm.

He doesn’t need a flat screen television or a stove with all of the burners working. He is at home in the soft chatter of the upstairs neighbors that mingles with the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall of the kitchen.

He is at home in the leaky bathroom sink and the muffled creaking of the bed springs.

 

 

 

Charlie visits him too sometimes.

He loves Moscow. He fell in love with it the moment he stepped out of the airport and into the city. Igor knows this well from past conversations and from the multitude of interviews in which he has mentioned it. Moscow might not be Manchester or London or Leverkusen but that’s the whole entire point.

It’s not the Premier League. It’s not the Bundesliga either. Maybe Lokomotiv can’t offer him the same fame and glory and European nights that all of his previous clubs could but it can offer him something that is unparalleled - a home away from home.

So, the city isn’t a problem. That’s not why Charlie insists that they meet at his apartment instead of his house. Igor still doesn’t know why he’s so enamored with the place because every time he asks, Charlie smirks and gives him a one liner about how it’s the perfect place for a clandestine meeting or about how the corner shop two blocks away sells the best individual cigarettes.

Igor’s stopped asking a few months ago because it...actually doesn’t really matter why. Despite the fact that this apartment’s sole purpose is to serve as a place of solitude, he finds that he likes Charlie’s company.

He’s found that he likes sharing this little piece of Moscow with him.

 

 

 

Igor tries to watch domestic matches as often as he can. He’ll cheat sometimes, change the channel to whatever Serie A or Premier League match is playing simultaneously but for the most part, he tries to stay faithful to the only league he’s ever known.

Although, when he watches Charlie get cut down during the final minutes of Lokomotiv’s home match against Amkar Perm, he wishes he’d changed the channel back to a replay of yesterday’s El Clasico.

He waits for him to dust himself off and get back to his feet. And he waits and waits but the moment never comes because in all of his years, all of the injuries that he’s sustained and had to witness, he knows what it looks like when you’ve really fucked up your ankle.

It’s selfish that after the initial shock and concern wears off, his first thought is how stupid unfortunate it is that in a couple of days they’re supposed to play each other.

It’s entirely selfish but still. The thought is there. It persists.

 

 

 

Any guilt he feels slips away as they hammer goal after goal past Lokomotiv’s keeper.

Four in total and one of their most decisive wins of the season so far. They benefited from the absence of Charlie’s towering presence at the back. He is very much aware of that but it’s the law of the game. It’s how it is sometimes.

It’s fine. He will make up for it by letting Charlie fist his hands into the front of his shirt to pin him against the apartment’s door and kiss him senseless, crutches and all.

 

 

 

Charlie visits him more often while he recovers from his injury.

Igor figures he gets restless being able to do nothing else except train and go to physical therapy (and not be able to help his country qualify for the World Cup.)

In November, when the snowfall is just on the brink of turning serious, Charlie asks to meet him on the worn out, yellow bench in the courtyard at the front of the apartment complex. At this time late in the afternoon, the only company he has while he waits is the falling snowflakes and a few small birds scouring the frozen ground for their next meal.

“Why did you want to meet out here?” They rarely bother with pleasantries anymore. Not that they ever have, really. So when Charlie walks up the uneven, cobblestone path towards him, he gets straight to the point.

Charlie shoves his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets. Even with the thick scarf wrapped around his neck and chin, his fond smile is unmistakable. “I thought we could roast some chestnuts.”

When the only response Igor gives is a blank stare, Charlie points with his chin towards a chestnut tree a few meters away from them. “C’mon. It’s fun. And tasty.”

Despite the explanation, Igor is still unimpressed, glancing down at Charlie’s right ankle almost on reflex. “You’re not seriously thinking about climbing that tree.”

Charlie tugs his scarf down so that it’s no longer covering his mouth. And ah, okay. He was fully expecting that objection. “Of course not. You are.”

He should say no. Igor should outright reject that idea instead of surveying the tree and trying to gauge if that is even a possibility without risking a serious injury.

Well. There are a couple of solid branches close to the ground, thick enough to support his weight but not so thick that he would have difficulties wrapping his hand around it. Still. “If you want to eat roasted chestnuts that much, I could go to the store and buy us a couple of bags.”

It’s odd because when Igor turns to face him again, Charlie doesn’t look upset he looks...almost disappointed. “I don’t want to just eat roasted chestnuts, I want to roast chestnuts. I want to pick and roast chestnuts. With you.”

That addition is what immediately does him in. Those two words - _with you_ \- is all that it takes for Igor to relent and walk towards the tree after huffing out a defeated fine.

The last time that he climbed a tree, he was seventeen and trying to steal his neighbor’s peaches. Never did get caught. Over a decade later, he still remembers what to do. Still remembers how to maneuvers his limbs so he can balance himself against the tree’s trunk while picking the fruit and tossing them down towards Charlie. He doesn’t get too many, only the ones that are within arm’s reach. Igor gets the feeling that the few he managed to gather will be more than enough.

It’s a true blessing that they are completely alone in the courtyard and most importantly, that he hasn’t spotted anyone watching them from their balconies. He knows he wouldn’t hear the end of it if any of the old ladies that live in the building saw even a glimpse of him doing what he just did. Bad example for their grandchildren. Does he want to end up in the hospital? He can practically hear their biting, judgemental remarks.

Upstairs, while the chestnuts are soaking in water and the oven is warming up, they huddle on the loveseat in the bedroom. Igor fiddles with the nearby radiator where their gloves, scarves, and hats are drying off while Charlie tries to find something for them to watch that isn’t the evening news. Eventually, they settle on a rerun of Rush Hour.

“Are you worried about playoffs?” Igor has to ask. He can’t not.

Charlie shrugs but the tension in his shoulders is obvious. “UEFA banned one of Greece’s best defenders for some bullshit time wasting that they never seem to care about when it comes to Spain and their best striker only just came back from injury.”

All facts. All things that Igor is already aware of. “So…”

“So,” Charlie shifts closer, angling towards him, “We’re going to win and then we’re going to come here and kick your ass.”

“We’ll see about that.” Igor doesn’t know what else to do but laugh. Not unkindly, not even directed at him just...because. Charlie doesn’t take offense to it, his hand coming down to slap Igor’s knee before gripping it tightly and joining him, wide smile splitting his face as laughter bubbles out of him too.

City rivals. Continent rivals. The banter has always been ubiquitous.

 

 

 

Sometimes Igor thinks about when they first met.

Sometimes he threads back in his memories to that match 12 years ago in Lokomotiv’s stadium at the beginning of Russia’s qualifying campaign for the 2008 Euros. The foreshadowing does not escape him.

Granted, at the time, there was nothing special about that day. A zero-zero draw that would eventually come back to haunt them when they qualified but placed second in the group behind Croatia.

They were only 20. Only 20 and still so full of dreams and ambitions and wanting desperately to prove to the world that good football still lives in these parts of Europe.

Sometimes he watches replays of the match to remind himself that after all that time, after everything they have been through together and apart, they eventually came full circle right back where it all began.

In the months leading up to the World Cup, it’s worth remembering that the fire and passion and desire to make his country proud has only grown, not diminished.

Four Slavic nations at the World Cup and he has the enormous privilege to not only captain them but captain them at home.

 

 

 

Charlie visits him there in late February when he is sick and tired of all the physical therapy he has had to endure for months. They sit in flimsy, plastic chairs on the small balcony, drapes drawn together on all sides for maximum privacy, and pass around the plastic bottle full of homemade rakija Charlie brought with him. Igor remembers the one and only time he half jokingly asked him if he had an endless supply. Charlie’s only response, a wink followed by a devious smirk, was answer enough for him to never ask again.

“Almost eleven months,” Charlie says, _again_ , the words muffled by the mouth of the bottle halfway between his lips.

Igor knows, he’s kept count too. He also knows that there are no platitudes that he could offer that would make this feel any better. Nothing he could say that he hasn’t already tried to say the last five times they had this exact same conversation.

Well...

“You’re already included in the Europa League squad. You’re going to Madrid next week.” He takes the bottle back once Charlie has chugged a few more than generous sips. “And to the World Cup.” All facts but comforting facts, nonetheless.

He watches Charlie visibly relax a little more into his chair, the legs moving and bunching up the rug underneath.“Speaking of...you should thank God that FIFA didn’t put us in the same group,” And just like that, the defeated tone fades away, bleeding into a confidence that Igor is far more comfortable and familiar with. “It would’ve been a real shame to have to take the league title _and_ the World Cup away from you all in the same year. All in the span of two months!”

Igor laughs around a mouthful of rakija, purposely keeping the bottle out of Charlie’s reach in retaliation. “The season’s not over yet.”

“Maybe. But,” Charlie’s hand settles high up on his thigh as he continues, “If you’re so confident you’re going to win, and _I’m_ so confident that _we’re_ going to win...we should make a bet.”

Igor shouldn’t agree. He absolutely shouldn’t indulge him like this.

“Deal.”

 

 

 

The bed is just wide enough to fit them both but not long enough. Igor fits perfectly if he squishes his pillow as close as possible to the corner where the two walls meet. On the other hand, no matter what Charlie does, his feet still hang over the edge.

It never seems to matter much though. Igor has no qualms about letting Charlie crowd him against the wall so that he can sleep semi diagonally.

Or rather, it never seemed to matter until Charlie tore his Achilles and they had to learn to be more careful. Months after his return, months after he was declared completely fit and healed, Igor still finds himself taking extra care not to jostle his right ankle too much.

Or his head.

With Charlie’s left leg wrapped as tightly as possible around his waist, it’s almost impossible for Igor not to plaster himself on top of him while they kiss. Charlie has made a tousled mess of his short hair, running his fingers through it until it stands up in all different directions.

“You won,” Igor mumbles against his throat, nipping at the delicate skin there just hard enough to feel his breath hitch, “What do you want as your prize?”

They probably should have set actual terms when they shook on it but they didn’t. Not that Igor didn’t think he was serious. Of course he was. He always is when it comes to things like these. Igor thought about asking what each of them would get for winning as the season drew closer to its end but he never did. To be honest, it didn’t much matter. He already knew the type of prize Charlie would want.

“My prize should be getting to fuck you.”

“You did that last week,” Igor says, matter of fact, already sneaking a hand down between them to lazily stroke him, “And broke my alarm clock when you knocked over the nightstand.”

“There’s an IKEA nearby,” Charlie’s voice catching in his throat as Igor brushes his thumb over the tip, “I’ll buy you a new one that wasn’t around for the Soviet Union.”

Igor kisses him before he can continue. He has to. He needs to hide his fond smile against his mouth. “Tell me. What do you want me to do?” Charlie’s hand reaches up to cup his cheek for a moment and as soon as it slides down to his shoulder, Igor already knows what he wants.

Of course.

He slides down easily to kiss up the inside of his thighs, letting Charlie wind his fingers through his hair again and gently guide him.

 

 

 

In the morning, Igor will wake up to Charlie absentmindedly running his fingertips over his back while scrolling through Instagram.

He will take a moment to listen to the muffled thumping of the children that live upstairs. The cars honking on the highway just behind the apartment complex. The soft patter of the windows of the balcony.

He will take a moment to breathe, relax, and reach back to tug Charlie’s arm over his waist.

**Author's Note:**

> \- almost all of the details included in this are from my own experience growing up in a post-communist country and from conversations i've had with other eastern europeans, they seem to resonate with them too  
> \- is this an actual ship? who knows! but i've made it one :3  
> \- khrushchyovka apartment buildings, [which the russian government in currently in the process of demolishing and relocating their residents](https://www.rbth.com/longreads/khrushchyovki/), are a controversial topic for people that have lived in them because for some, they are practical and solid and hold a lot of sentimental value while for others, they are tiny shoeboxes that they wish to escape from  
> \- charlie tore his achilles tendon at the beginning of 2017 [and was out for almost an entire year](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgGOCgNlbAc/?hl=en&taken-by=corlukav05_14)  
> \- baby akinfeev and baby charlie [played against each other a whoooole 12 years ago during 2008 euro qualifiers](https://www.uefa.com/uefaeuro/season=2008/matches/round=2241/match=83918/index.html)  
> \- find me on [tumblr](http://ikercasiillas.tumblr.com) and thank you so much for reading ♥


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